find what you love and let it kill you | poem
poetry | collection
global nomadic
no fixed abode, a taste like sour milk
every time I ran out of fresh loot or good smoke
every time ink dried up at work desk station
every time a good woman got up to dress and go.
no fixed abode, a taste like sour milk
whenever boss man refused to pay up off the books
whenever wine bottle lay empty on wooden flooring
whenever rise smoke found…
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